Far from the birds, the herds, the village girls
What did I drink, in heather to my knees,
Within a tender grove of walnut trees
In the warm green mist of an afternoon?What could I drink in that young stream,
—Tuneless reeds, flowerless grass, cloudy sky! —
Drink from those yellow gourds, far from the dreamed of
Hut? Gold that drunk brought sweat to the skin.
I might have swayed a queer sign for an inn.
— A long wind swept the clouds away. That night
The waters of the wood were sunk in sands
And a wind from God flung glass on all the ponds.
Weeping, I saw the gold, — and could not drink.
